


Blood of Iron, Birds of Prey

by semblance



Series: Blood of Iron, Birds of Prey [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semblance/pseuds/semblance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tevinter AU: Garrett Hawke is a Laetan, with ambitions of becoming Altus - or even a magister.  He claws his way through the treacherous waters of Minrathous's social ladders, climbing one rung at a time.  No matter how many foes lay dead behind him, the truth is painfully evident - he will always have one more enemy to break if he is to keep his family on top.  And he has no problem getting his hands dirty.  His ascent is greatly aided the day he defeats Magister Danarius, gaining the man's wealth and vast array of slaves - including one elven, lyrium-lined bodyguard.</p>
<p>(A lot of m!Hawke/Fenris, occasional breakout of plot: be warned, this is not a fluffy!Tevinter Hawke)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Growing Pains

"Fasta vass, that _hurt_!" Carver wrenched his arm from his brother's grasp.

Garrett 'tsked,' casting his brother an exasperated glance. "If you wanted to be coddled, you would have gone to Bethany. Now hold still. You're like a mewling babe." He took his brother's hand back into his grasp, focusing in on the long, deep cut on his bicep. At least the bleeding had stopped. That must mean he was making some progress. Maker's hairy balls, how did Beth do this so quickly?

"Fuck you, Garrett." He chose to ignore his brother's petulant retort. It lacked bite, anyhow; when Carver was being nasty, he landed far more lancing blows.

There were easier ways to heal. He could cut his own hand, trace a few quick sigils in the air, and Carver would be good as new. Truthfully, though, Garrett enjoyed the challenge of healing magic without the crutch of the power of blood. As much as Carver liked to snipe, he usually came to Garrett for healing; Garrett suspected, although would never say as much, that it was Carver's way of helping him practice. Given how often Carver got cut up, Garrett was gaining some skill in the field. The boy certainly did like picking fights. Not that Garrett could complain. Carver was an exceptional swordsman; even though he lacked magical ability, the Imperium was always looking for remarkable talent for its armies. Garrett pulled strings and kissed ass, and now Carver was training alongside the best warriors of the Imperium. There was still some resentment, of course; Garrett was not above reminding Carver that all he had was because of his mage brother. Just as often, however, he pointed out that the giving was one thing; Carver kept what he had out of merit. His reputation as a warrior was a boon to the family, and Garrett was a proponent of anything that got him closer to the Archon's notice.

He supposed that his father would be disappointed. His mother, spirits of spite take her, had intimated as much. Practically cackled it into Garrett's ear on her deathbed (Garrett, used to her chronic sniping by that point, had not been terribly affected). Malcolm Hawke had never truly assimilated into the city that had welcomed him and his family with open arms. An apostate, seeking a reprieve, yes, and one of considerable talent; he could have risen far. He was, however, too Fereldan, unable to shake the biases of his own upbringing, to turn an eye to the 'injustices' all around him, and he had hoped to raise his children in the same traditions. Unfortunately, his efforts to find a refuge for his family had been all too successful; his children had no real sense of the dangers facing mages outside of the Imperium, no notion of the abhorrence towards slavery, no gratitude at the sanctuary. Garrett in particular thrived in Tevinter; his magic was powerful, he was charming, handsome, clever...more and more, Malcolm saw his eldest falling in with 'that crowd.' The twins, of course, idolized their big brother, and were soon copying his mannerisms. Perhaps, had there been time, Malcolm would have taken his family and found another, more palatable safe harbor, somewhere his children would not grow in values that he found detestable. As it was, he was caught trying to free a magister's slaves, and was killed in the ensuing fight. Garrett had been thirteen; he could not remember mourning, although he looked on his new role as head of the household with some trepidation. Despite the derision his father's actions had earned - they were already the barbarian dog lords, and Malcolm's outspoken criticism had not endeared him to many mages of significant standing - Garrett was determined to prove himself the superior in every way. Secretly, he harbored an almost fanatical desire to be chosen as a magister; realistically, he would settle for attracting enough attention and influence to perhaps gain the hand of the daughter of an Altus, and cement his family's place amongst such prestigious bloodlines forever.

There. It was done. The flesh on Carver's bicep had knitted together cleanly, muscle smooth and untorn once more. There was a faint, slightly raised scar; Carver touched it delicately and quirked his brow at his brother. Bethany left no scars when she healed.

"Don't pretend you don't like it," Garrett said as he shook out his hands, which always cramped a little after casting healing magic. "Gives you one more story to tell your ladies."

A rare grin broke out on Carver's face. "It does make 'em wet to hear about a good battle scar." He examined the new scar with a slightly satisfied smirk; no doubt he was composing the tale of its acquisition.

Garrett rolled his eyes, flexing his hands, and then gave a cough, drawing his brother's attention. "About the fight...."

Carver quickly grew somber, shedding thoughts of pretty whores as his eyes went to his brother. "I think it'll be possible. I managed to get Saedrin to tell me a little more than she ought. He'll use blood magic, there's no doubt - and he will have reserves of power like you wouldn't believe. I'm not just talking about the elf, either. With witnesses, he won't call on help, but I'll be there anyway. I can take the bodyguard, although that heart-ripping thing won't be fun."

Garrett let out a soft sigh. Everything slipping into place. He had not expected Danarius to be an easy rival to tackle. In fact, the longer he dwelt on the fact that in a day's time, he would be facing off against the magister, the more a giddy feeling crept up from his stomach, gripped his throat and threatened him with the urge to burst into hysterical laughter to mask his terror. Defeating a magister in a duel did not earn you a right to take his place in the Magisterium; it did, however, gain you no small deal of standing and respect. When the man was Danarius, it also earned you a fair deal of wealth. Everything, in fact. A reckless bid to jump a couple of rungs instead of continuing his maddeningly slow climb. Of course, if he lost, that was it. He would most likely be killed, Carver and Bethany quietly disposed of as well, and that would be the end of the Hawke legacy in the Imperium. Tomorrow would be a fight to the death. 

"Beth will be there." He saw Carver's brows shoot together in a scowl, mouth opening in angry objection, but cut him off before the little tit could gather momentum. "Don't presume to question, little warrior." There it was; the slight bite, the subtle reminder that Carver alone of his siblings wielded no magic, was second-class in a nation enslaved to manipulators of the Fade. Carver's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and his cheeks turned red. The easy companionship had faded from the air, replaced by an all-too-familiar tension. Carver had never _liked_ taking orders, although he did it willingly enough. He also didn't approve of Bethany being exposed to the violence of the duels. Of course, Bethany was only going along to make sure that someone was there to shield Carver magically whilst Garrett was distracted by the duel. It was a task Garrett only trusted to family. Besides, Carver had been very occupied with training this past year; he had not quite seen the warrior Bethany had become. She would always be a little timid, likely never reach great heights of magic, but she no longer blanched at the sight of blood. Her place was alongside her brothers; it was the fate of the family that was being decided, after all. "Back to the guard. Prepare for tomorrow." His voice was cool and dismissive; he expected the same obedience from his brother that he demanded from everyone else in this household.

Carver's teeth bared in a snarl, but he left. No doubt he would take out his now-foul mood on whichever wench was warming his sheets tonight. No matter. As long as he was fresh in the morning. Garrett spent his evening in quiet meditation, emptying his head of fear and doubt. Tomorrow.

*******

The Hawkes were not yet a family that merited a formal duel; they would not be gracing the halls of the Grand Proving Arena. No, they were going to the heart of the magister's home, the seat of his power. They were all distracted enough that they did not spend much time looking around; there would be time, they supposed, afterwards. If there _was_ an afterwards.

Garrett had not slept very well. Danarius was more than a cruel laugh and a rough hand with slaves. His work with lyrium was impressive - ground breaking, even. He had a sharp mind and no little amount of skill and power. He also had many more years experience than Garrett, and against more powerful men than Garrett had ever faced. Garrett was jealous of Hadriana, privy to such a mentor. She squandered her good fortune, though; she was complacent, lazy, resting on the arrogance of her good fortune and made petty by her weak ambition. Garrett had used her pettiness to his advantage, goading her into a fight. When she lost, he had been seized by reckless inspiration, and insulted both her and her master to the point that Danarius had had no choice but to challenge him, although the Hawkes would normally be beneath his notice. Privately, Garrett regretted his hasty actions.

Publicly, Garrett forced himself to appear nonchalant, leaning against his staff indolently and trading a few laughs with his siblings. They were not playing their parts quite as well; Bethany's laugh was too high, forced, and Carver had a tendency to slip into a dark scowl until he caught Garrett's annoyed glance and pasted a grimace on his face that was most likely supposed to be a smile. Ah well. They were still young. They'd learn to dissemble in time. Danarius had appeared in resplendent, finely tailored robes with (Garrett suspected) genuine gold trimming. An ornate amulet rested against his chest, shimmering oddly. The staff in his hand was smoothly polished, deep ebony, and affixed with a rune that filled the air around it with crackling green energy. He was the the perfect picture of a mature, powerful magister, ripe in his power.

In comparison, Garrett was every bit the foreign, unsophisticated barbarian. He was clad in breeches and tall, soft leather boots. A short black robe with (definitely not genuine) gold trimming was tied up with a thick scarlet sash. He bore two iron rings, but no expensive pendants, no augments for his power. His staff was as rough and humble as the rest of his garb. Although sanded down, it lacked a polished gleam, and there were obvious knots in the crooked wood. It even had the reddish hue of cheap cherry wood, although darker and slightly golden. Unlike most staffs, it bore no runes or enchantments. Instead, the top third was a blade, slightly curved and double-edged, making the staff resemble a shortened glaive. His whole appearance was, perhaps, the only indication that Malcolm Hawke had ever had an affect on his eldest. Garrett had always preferred the practical, comfortable styling of an apostate on the run rather than the grand robes of a Tevinter mage.

Garrett accepted his siblings' final wishes for good fortune, and then took his place. Carver and Bethany would ensure that no one, particularly Hadriana or the elven pet, interfered. They would also have to watch each other's backs; he could not guard them and fight. With a deep breath, he put them out of his mind. In short order, the duel was upon them. There was no great fanfare. He and Danarius took positions facing one another. The official dropped a scarf. For a moment, it seemed suspended in the air, gently fluttering, and then it floated down like liquid thread, and the crimson silk kissed marble. The fight began.

Immediately, Garrett found himself throwing up his staff, deflecting a bolt of energy just in time: instead of taking off his head, it left a shallow cut across his cheek. A snarl growing, he sent his own lance back, the air around them beginning to crackle with magical energy. He called up a barrier just in time to block a stinging wisp. Danarius brushed aside the stonefist that raged towards him, twisting the residual energy into lightning bolt that hit Garrett's barrier and made it dissipate with a loud crack that made Garrett clutch his ear, even as he used the explosive force to cause the ground beneath Danarius to buck and tremble. The chaotic frenzy of elements, back and forth, twisted here and there, lasted for awhile, no pause as the combatants tested one another's wills. At last, both were still, panting heavily; Garrett, though winded, was pleased to see Danarius shaking with exhaustion. Perhaps his only advantage was his youthful vitality. Even with conditioning, though, he was beginning to feel the sharp tug behind his eyes that said his mana was dangerously depleted. Danarius, too, must be...Garrett's eyes narrowed. Danarius was clutching his amulet, a tell-tale blue mist settling into his hands - a lyrium reservoir! Of course the bastard had something like that. He was the foremost authority on lyrium. It was not a good omen. Unless Garrett ended the fight soon - which he didn't see happening - he was going to be killed simply because he had no more mana left to cast. 

He began attacking in earnest, closing the distance between himself and Danarius to limit the amount of energy required to push his attacks. He hit him with lightning, he threw fire, froze Danarius with a cold blast - it barely made a difference. Danarius's spells were powerful, his mana nearly at full strength; Garrett was fading. His staff was heavy in his arms, which were beginning to feel like they were made of stone. Suddenly, he was no longer the one advancing - Danarius was closing the gap, and Garrett was giving ground in front of him. He found himself unable to take another step, frozen in place, paralyzed. It was a creeping spell - he could feel it clawing at him, but when he reached for his magic, he found nothing, a mere flickering flame. He wouldn't be able to break the hold. 

Danarius knew it, too. He stepped in close, running his fingers through Hawke's hair, smiling indulgently. "Oh, little bird, you should not have attempted to bait a dragon." He gripped Garrett's hair suddenly, pulling his head back and sneering. Garrett thought he heard Bethany crying out, but all his attention remained on Danarius, on his toothy, leering grin, intimately close. "Beg, and I will make it quick. Maybe I'll even spare your brother and sister...make them slaves in my service...." Garrett bared his teeth in a noiseless snarl, but could do nothing further. "Go on, little bird," Danarius urged in a breathy whisper, stroking Garrett's cheek with his thumb. "Beg."

It was the little brush, the tickle of the lascivious whisper on the shell of his ear, that ignited a burst of fury and indignation in Garrett's belly, and without thinking, a white-hot sword formed, slashing out at Danarius's midriff. It was desperate, clumsy magic; the blade, though cutting deep, was too hot, cauterizing as it cut and searing nerves too rapidly to cause significant pain. The surprise, however, made Danarius stumble back, gripping his gut. The force holding Garrett paralyzed vanished, and he dropped to the ground, grunting. Pushing himself up to his knees took a monumental effort - he was floating, struggling to connect to his own limbs. With a deep, savage growl, he clenched his fist and made a gesture as if grabbing at the air. There was a loud crack, the sound of rent cloth, and a large, violet hand reached out from an unknown void and grabbed Danarius's arm. An identical gesture, and another hand appeared, grabbing the other arm and holding Danarius dangling in the air. Pain exploded in Garrett's head, lanced from his finger tips, up his arms, gripped his chest, made his heart feel like it was about to burst in his chest, coated his mouth with the cloying, bitter tones of blood and visceral as his vision greyed. He refused to give into the darkness, although the living world was fading around him, and he shook under the force of the excruciating pain, barely able to maintain the spirit bonds holding Danarius captive. 

"Wait, _please_ -!"

Danarius's terrified plea was an anchor to hold onto - Garrett pushed through the haze, back to that anchor in the living world. He forced his eyes open, and made a ripping motion with his hands, and Danarius's words turned into a scream that was abruptly silenced.

Another explosion of pain. This time, the world was completely black, his ears roaring. When he became aware of the world once more, he was grateful to find that he had not collapsed; he was holding himself up, if barely, fists pressing into the ground. He felt like he was a piece of metal hammered out on a smith's anvil for hours. His lips, his mouth, were bone-dry, and he could taste blood. Tentatively touching his face, he found his nose bleeding steadily, soaking his beard and dripping onto his robes. The world swayed once more before him: he wouldn't be able to so much as light a candle with his magic right now. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to stand. A glimmer at the corner of his eye caught the attention of his sluggish brain; it was Danarius's amulet, cast from its bearer when its cord was severed. Garrett staggered forward on his hands and knees, gripping it tightly without really thinking it through.

It was like dunking his head into a bucket of ice water. No, it was like breathing ice water, replacing the blood in his body with a cutting coldness that brought every sense to life. Rejuvenating energy raced through his veins, sank into his bones; he could feel the lyrium, singing to his soul, humming in his core. His body drank greedily, mana flooding back into him and bringing back some of his strength with it.

A guttural cry caught his attention - it was the elven warrior. He was on his knees, lyrium markings blazing blue. Garrett looked between the amulet in his hand and the screaming slave. Of course. It was a well, a tool for remotely accessing the lyrium etched into the slave. A clever cheat; Danarius might as well have had the slave at his side. Evidently small pulls were nothing, but the sheer force and depth of Garrett's pull from that lyrium seemed to cause agony. For a moment, Garrett's curiosity nearly pushed him to explore how the pull worked, but after a couple of moments, he tucked the amulet away. His mana was restored, anyway. The slave's shrieking ceased, but he remained quivering on the cool marble floor. Hawke's cool marble floor. His slave, too. A glimmer of pride fluttered in his chest inspite of his weariness.

The lyrium pull was enough to revive Garrett. He got to his feet, somewhat shaky, a defiant lift to his chin. The onlookers were applauding, he realized; some had even begun to cheer. Danarius's end had been spectacularly violent; he was strewn across the floor, ripped clean in half, intestines traveling between the two separate pieces. Hawke stared at the carnage, running his tongue over his cracked and bleeding lips, and then grinned wolfishly.

_Victory._

The official announcement of his triumph was made. He accepted the offered congratulations with cool arrogance, and documents were handed over as per the agreement; everything once belonging to Danarius now belonged to him. Only after his admirers backed away did he go to his family. They were grinning, but even Bethany knew better than to hug him with so many watching. "Congratulations, Garrett!" There was as much warmth in her face and words as could ever be in an embrace. Garrett patted her shoulder, gave a nod to Carver, and then frowned. He saw Hadriana slumped against the far wall, unconscious. 

Carver saw his quirked brow, and said, "She tried to step in when you were," and he made a gesture showing he meant when Danarius was hanging in the air. "Bethy sent her flying, right into the wall." 

Garrett's brows raised even higher, and then he suddenly grinned. "Brilliant throw, Bethany," he said. He had been working with her on force magic; she had only ever managed to lift him an inch off the ground, barely making him stagger. 

Bethany blushed and ducked her head, scuffing at the floor with her soft slippers. "She's a lot lighter than you," she mumbled, but it was impossible to miss the pleased grin that she was trying to keep off her face.

Both brothers chuckled at their sister, slipping into a rare moment of familial peace, the world momentarily disappearing around them. They were a family. They were together. They shared this victory together. Eventually, Garrett let Bethany steer him away, sit him down to heal the myriad of burns, gouges, fix cracked ribs. That night, he slept on a plush bed, surrounded by silk and opulence, floating on a crowd.

It was a start. He fell asleep smiling, and dreamed of better things to come.


	2. Spoils of Victory

Danarius had accrued an impressive holding in his lifetime. All of it was now Garrett's. It was some time, however, before he was able to properly evaluate it all. In the immediate aftermath of the duel, he was inundated with invitations to balls and soirees, requests for private meetings, invitations to join research groups...he had done it. He was not at the top yet, but he had shattered the barrier between him and his final goal. The name Hawke was no longer unknown, no longer a dirty Fereldan outsider. He jumped right into the treacherous dance of socializing with the elite of the Imperium, putting off stewardship duties in the interim. 

He did make some minor edicts. Bethany was allowed to pick three of Danarius's slaves for herself. Carver was put in charge of the guard, and also tasked to look through the remaining slaves and pick out the most valuable. The slaves they had owned before the duel were moved into the new household and put in positions of trust and power. Those of Danarius's slaves deemed superfluous (or too sickly or old or crippled) were disposed of. A few were valuable enough to sell, but most were simply culled. No point in allowing a slave with intimate knowledge of the household to end up in some rival's grasp. Plus it served as a stern warning to the survivors; their new masters were not soft-hearted foools. It did not take the slaves long to adjust to their new owners, particularly under the direction of the Hawke's lifelong slaves. They quickly discovered the quirks and tendencies of the twins. Mistress Bethany, for example, had a weakness for sweets and pretty baubles, amd enjoyed being sung to sleep. She was also free with healing, and particularly indulgent of the children on the staff. She was not as powerful a mage as her older brother, but she did practice and try to be better, to please him. She adored their new position and all the parties and new 'friends.' She alone could defuse the hostility that occasionally flared between her brothers. Undeniably, she was the favorite amongst the new staff.

Master Carver was less gentle-natured than his twin, and quicker to see fault. Their introduction to this master was him weeding out the old, infirm, and otherwise undesirables, and ordering them killed. On the otherhand, he was in charge of the weekly allowances for food and coin for servants and slaves alike, and was not ungenerous. He was tough but fair with the household guard, handling their training personally, and could often be found in their dorms, gambling, drinking, and trading bawdy jokes. He, too, had a weakness for sweets, although a different kind than his twin; the sweet touch of a woman. He bedded the pretty girls, slaves and servants, married and unmarried alike, and at first many feared for their daughters and wives. He proved to be a gentle bed partner, however, except on the occasion when he had been excessively drinking or working out his anger - Carver had a bit of a nasty temper, after all. Still, he usually rewarded his partners with a little extra food or coin, or easier duties. Many of the young women fought over who would get to clean his rooms, turn down his bed - the rewards were worth the indignity of it all.

Garrett, the master of all, was the greatest mystery. They did not see much of him for the first few months. He was often away from the estate, although they were not privy to where he was staying. When he did return home, usually late at night for a few hours of sleep, he was attended by the family slaves, the ones the Hawkes had brought with them. Carver, for now, ran things in his brother's stead. The rare times that Master Hawke _was_ around were unpleasant; he had been called in to deal with particularly brash forms of disobedience. He proved chillingly disciplinarian. A young servant caught gossiping about the family had her tongue removed. A slave caught peeping on the serving girls while they bathed lost his eyes. And not even Bethany's tearful pleas stopped Master Hawke from taking the hand of a boy caught stealing from the household accounts. They were all terrified of this ruthless man, but they were also aware that the family slaves were fiercely loyal to their master, a devotion that bordered on worship. Perhaps, the new slaves and servants reasoned, he would be more pleasant once they grew used to him and his rules.

They had a chance to find out three months into their new life. The pace had slowed down for Garrett, and he had established himself enough that he felt comfortable taking it easier, spending some time at home. He eagerly seized the opportunity to properly inspect the domain that now belonged to him. Truthfully, the social reward had been his primary object. Still, he wouldn't turn up his nose to the material gain. The estate, in fact, was enough to make almost-dying worth it (although he would have objected to actually dying...that had never been very fun). Pristine marble, sumptuously adorned with statues, colorful tapestries, creative sculptures, dotted with beautiful, exotic gardens and fountains...the library alone very nearly captured Garrett for the whole day! He spent a few hours walking about the place on his own, breathing it all in. The more he saw, the more pleased he was. This was home. It was his palace, and his fortress, and it would bring him to greatness.

After the self-guided tour, Garrett began the less-fun administrative tasks. He met with the estate steward. Hours of his day were devoted to taking proper inventory of all his belongings and investments, on the expenditures of the estate, and possible areas for growing his wealth. Then he watched Carver put the guards through their paces. He was pleased with what he saw, and was quick to praise the warriors. In Tevinter, after all, if you were a name worth knowing, you were a name worth killing; loyal, capable guards were invaluable.

Next, Bethany introduced him to the new servants. He sat down with each and every one, asked them a few questions about their families, circumstances, their duties, their lives. Though stern, he had a quiet manner that soon had them at ease, and soon their regard for Master Hawke began to grow. It was not like with Bethany, whose sweetness made them smile and indulgently care for her. Nor was it like Carver, who in spite of taking advantage of their womenfolk, had an earthiness to him, a raw sort of immaturity that was endearing. Rather, it was an ease borne of respect, and they found themselves eager to answer and obey, flattered that this man was willing to give them any of his time, and touched when he seemed so genuinely concerned with their lowly existence. By the time he excused himself, they had no notion of why they had been so terrified.

The slaves did not get quite so personal a treatment. Kolya, the head family slave, had them lined up in their dormitory, household slaves first. Master Hawke went down the line, checking their teeth and form with clinical care. Kolya provided him with their names and duties when asked, but that was not often; they were livestock to be inspected. Occasionally, Master Hawke paused to inspect a particular specimen for longer than the others; this inevitably caused a great deal of consternation. One particularly notable linger in front of a somewhat elderly elven man, easily one of the oldest present, prompted Kolya to say quietly, "Mistress Bethany chose him, Master Hawke." Garrett grunted, and after a few moments, moved on; the elderly slave nearly cried with relief. Others were not so lucky. A woman, ordered to strip, was found to have leaking sores and a widespread rash; she had also been hiding a fever with draughts of elfroot. She was dragged from the line, and her husband knocked unconscious by one of the guards when he tried to interfere. Their babe was given to another slave to suckle; their elder child (after some consideration on the part of Master Hawke), was allowed to stay, although he was transferred into a different part of the house so that his father, after he had been properly punished, would not see him again. The rest remained in line, trembling slightly until their time came and saying silent prayers of thanks when they and their loved ones were left unaccosted.

Last in line was the lyrium-lined elf. Fenris, as Kolya dutifully reminded him. The elf had been stripped of armor and sword. Garrett had not had the time to study the lyrium etchings, and his eyes lit up with curiosity. His inspection of this slave was longer than all the others. When he began to look at the markings on the elf's face he found, to his surprise, the elf staring at him unblinkingly. His astonishment only grew when the elf actually _held_ his gaze, quite deliberately, before his head bowed and contact was broken. Hmmm...Garrett let it slide for now. He beckoned for Kolya, and said, "Bring that woman back." The one who was to be put down. Guards hauled her back in, holding her up - she was too terrified to support her own weight. "Show me - phasing, I believe Danarius called it? Keep your hand in her."

For a moment, it looked like Fenris would refuse. His hands remained stubbornly at his side. Abruptly, however, his glowing hand struck out, and the slave woman screamed. No doubt the sudden violence was meant to be intimidating, but Garrett didn't even blink. He silenced the woman's voice with a wave of his hand, leaning in to get a better look. Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. He had Fenris move his hand about, inspecting the interaction with his magic. There was a kiss of the Fade in that touch. By the gods, how had Danarius done this? Finally, he ordered Fenris to withdraw his hand, and the woman - she had fainted in fear - was taken away once more to be disposed of humanely. Garrett eyed the oddity before him. "I want to study it," he told Kolya briskly. "Send it to my chambers." He paused, and favored the head slave with a smile, even placing a hand on his shoulder. "You have done well, Kolya."

Kolya allowed himself a smile, and bowed low. "Thank you, Master Hawke. It is always my pleasure to serve." Hawke gave him a nod, and then took his leave. He spent the rest of his day with his siblings, indulging in the heady wealth and luxury of the estate. In the back of his mind, however, sat the lyrium-lined elf, and Garrett could not wait for the next opportunity to more thoroughly inspect the white-haired mystery.


	3. A New Game

"Come." 

Fenris followed.

"Wait."

Fenris stood still.

"Kneel."

Fenris got down.

"Stay."

This last command was the first he broke. The door closed behind Kolya, leaving Fenris alone in Magister Danarius's study. Master Hawke's study. He looked around, and then got to his feet, eyes darting to the half-open door. He knew Danarius's rooms - he'd hear someone in the sitting room before they passed the study, and would be able to get on the ground before being discovered. For now, he wanted to look around. The room hadn't changed much - it was a little more cluttered. Danarius had liked everything in its place. The new master seemed less...particular. Stacks of papers lay scattered about the room, books lay open across the desk, a collection of clothes were tossed in the corner, along with a muddy pair of boots. Danarius had also liked to keep his valuables locked away; Garrett Hawke seemed less concerned with thievery. Fenris saw piles of gold coin lying out there, begging to be pocketed, and valuable trinkets were scattered about the general debris. There was the mage's staff, looking like a lumpy piece of driftwood, lying up in the corner. Fenris was seized with an insane impulse to break the damn thing in half, but decided not to press his luck. And, he supposed, it was foolish to completely discount the Ferelden. He had done what Fenris only dreamed of and spilled the bastard's guts. Fenris was wary - although he convinced himself that he was not afraid - of any mage who fought like a beast.

It was hard to shake that first memory of the man. Fenris, like many present, thought that Hawke was soon to die. Danarius would play with the man for a bit, perhaps, because of the public insult, but the victor was clear. Fenris's skin had been tingling, his head filled with a low hum as Danarius carefully drew lyrium through the amulet. Then, in the span of a few breaths, the combatants had reversed roles. The upstart Ferelden had looked like some demon, blood dripping from his chin. The magic he had cast bit the air, weighed down on everyone in the vicinity; Fenris had been entranced as he watched Danarius dangling. It looked like Hawke would perish anyway, the mage swaying on his knees, clenched fists beginning to drop. Then, as if struck by lightning, Hawke's eyes had shot open, and with a gesture as fearsome as his snarl, tore Danarius clean in half, the parts sliding across the floor and spraying gore. The hands had disappeared with a crack: for a moment, Fenris thought wildly that both combatants were dead. Then Hawke was surging forward, and Fenris saw his hand close around the black stone.

Agony.

That was it. That was his world. That's all he could possibly wrap his head around. Pain. Excruciating, unthinkable pain. He felt like someone was grating his skin, lighting him on fire, like he was being forcibly dragged through a hole that was too small, crushing him and tearing him apart all at once. He wasn't aware of his own screaming or that he was writhing against the marble. It was an eternity before the pain left him, or so it seemed. Even when it was gone, the memory of it left him unable to move. Next he knew, he was being dragged across the floor. When he lashed out, he heard a curse. "He's waking up, get going." His struggling grew more frantic, but he found himself being tossed free, and he hit the cold, hard ground, striking his head. He was temporarily dazed as he was stripped down.

"Fuck, it really _is_ everywhere."

"Expensive hide - maybe we'll have to skin it. Seems like a pain in the ass."

At the hint of a threat, Fenris tried to get up, but he was too unsteady on his feet, and pitched sideways. Hands grabbed him before he could fall all the way.

"Feisty bastard. Let's get 'im locked up. Kolya's going to be here tomorrow."

Fenris awoke some time later with a blazing headache, looking around. All of Danarius's slaves were grouped into cells. The ones sharing space with Fenris gave him a wide berth. He made no attempt to interact, but sat and listened. He learned that it had been two days since the duel, that Hawke had lived, and that their fates were still being determined. Over the course of the day, a young broad-shouldered man with bright grey eyes and blonde hair came down, a few guards in tow, and he'd take away a handful of slaves. Kolya, he was called, a slave of some standing with the Hawkes. They didn't know what happened to the other slaves, who never came back. The greatest fear was that they were all being sold off one by one - or getting killed in small, manageable groups.

Fenris was the last one left, and no one came for him for some time. No one fed him, either. His stomach began growling, and he slept as often as possible to pass the time. Food soon became his predominant concern; he couldn't tell how much time had passed, and he couldn't remember when he last ate. Whenever he heard footsteps, he shot up, but it was never a visitor. One night, he awoke groggy and out of sorts, and heard the murmur of low voices. Not daring to move, he cracked one eye open. There were two men standing in the dark, barely lit by a flickering torch. Kolya was one - the other was a younger, clean-shaven man with black hair and shockingly blue eyes. Fenris quickly shut his eyes before they realized he was awake, and listened in.

"And this is all that's left?"

"I didn't want to take him out, Master Carver."

"No, no, probably for the best. Garrett will want to see to him, I imagine."

"Master Hawke has not been coming home." Kolya's voice was politely blank in a way that said volumes.

"No, and I suspect _Master Hawke_ will take some time to rejoin us lowly peasants. He never did give a damn about others when he had a new toy in hand."

"You should not say such things, Master Carver. Master Hawke has always taken care of us."

"Yes, do group me with the rest of the slaves. Seems appropriate."

Fenris chanced a glance up; the black-haired youth was broodily staring off into nothing, and the blonde at his side was visibly distressed. "That is not what I - "

" _Enough_ , Kolya. Your help is wanted in household matters. Leave your masters to bicker on their own, there's a good man."

A tense silence followed, and then Kolya ventured tentatively, "Then, if I may, Master Carver, there are some concerns. Miss Bethany's choice in personal slaves, to start."

The young man sighed. "What about them?"

"Two are perfectly fine - a young orphan and an elven lady. The third, however, the lady's father...he is quite old. Older than I would like. Older than you would approve."

Carver let out another sigh, rubbing his brow. "Of course." There was a long silence, and then he said, "Leave him for now. Garrett will be the only one able to talk her around; let him deal with it when he has the time."

"Of course, master. Now, about the gardens...." Their voices trailed off. Some time later, when Fenris had been driven nearly mad with hunger and thirst, guards had come and taken him out of the cell, scrubbed him clean, and given him some food. He was placed in a dorm, although not allowed to carry a weapon or wear his armor. He mostly sat in bed, or paced the floor, restless at being contained for so long, but he had a feeling that trying to leave the dormitory would not end well. Then came the day when they all met Master Hawke at last, and now here he was, glancing around the study and hoping to run. First, though...

There. The amulet. The damnable stone that allowed a mage to have a grip on him, even at a distance. Fenris snatched it up, tightly clenched in his fist, and nearly sprinted away, but there it was, the sound of boots treading against marble, so he dropped quickly to the ground, hiding the amulet.

The footsteps drew near, and then began retreating; the person had continued to the bedroom. Fenris took a deep breath, and darted for the door; with luck, he would be gone before they even realized he was...

Ice seized his feet, and he pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. Panicked, he tried to struggle free, but curled up with a cry when he felt a lash fall across his back. "And where were you running?" Invisible hands picked him up and dangled him upside down, slowly rotating him until he was face-to-face with his captor. Well _shit_. Master Hawke eyed him up, a little frown on his brow. Or Fenris thought it was a frown - it was hard to tell upside down. Thankfully, he hadn't dropped the amulet; it remained clenched in his fist, hidden from sight. Master Hawke walked back to his study, tugging Fenris behind him. "I want to study this lyrium of yours." He did not look at Fenris, but instead shuffled through the papers on his desk, muttering under his breath. "Now where did I...." 

Fenris struggled in the air, but remained suspended. Perhaps if he could knock the man out, he'd be able to get away. There was nothing to keep him here anymore; this mage had no hold over him, and Fenris refused to be a pet to another, one who hadn't even created him. He strained up, clawing at the invisible ties that held him suspended, and fell back down, panting with effort. 

His only warning was the hum that filled the air. The next second, a lash landed across his back, or at least it felt like one. Startled, he looked around, but all he found was Hawke, seated at his desk and eyeing Fenris with an annoyed expression. Fenris glared in return, but his eyes widened when he saw Hawke hold up a black stone, which looked an awful lot like.... It couldn't be...no, it was a trick. The mage must think he had stashed the amulet, and was trying to figure out the location. "This is what, I believe, you were looking for. Unfortunately, you have instead stolen my duplicate. Which I would like returned." Fenris spat. Even if true, he was not going to hop around at this man's word, unlike everyone else, it seemed. "Elf," Hawke began warningly, and then stopped, rubbing his temples. "Why do I even..." Fenris's markings flared, and Fenris yelled as fire seemed to race through his veins. The fire died down, and Fenris saw Hawke stroking the stone in his hand; so the mage hadn't been lying. "I grow weary of asking, elf." Fenris glared. Duplicate or not, he refused to appear intimidated. Hawke sighed and stood up, drawing a small knife from inside his robes. It was no longer than a finger, and Fenris recognized its use immediately, snarling in defiance and finding his voice suddenly silenced. "You are toothless, little wolf; do not growl so." Hawke cut his own palm, and then reached for Fenris's, prying it open and pulling the other stone from his grasp. Then he cut Fenris's hand, and clapped their hands together. Fenris felt magic race up his arm like pins and needles, and then Hawke touched the amulet to their mingled blood, and pins and needles became lightning bolts of agony that faded into nothing

Hawke examined the amulet, and then glanced at Fenris. _Much better._ Fenris's eyes widened; although Hawke's mouth had not opened, his voice sounded clear as day in Fenris's ears. _I am surprised Danarius did not think of this. A direct connection is so much more efficient._ Hawke resettled in his chair, stroking the amulet thoughtfully. Fenris shivered as the ghost of that touch washed over him. Their mingled blood seemed to amplify the effects of the amulet; previously, only his markings had been affected by the interaction. "It only works with a living source of lyrium," Hawke said, almost to himself. "A living source. How is it possible? To meld a finite material into a renewable vessel...." He examined his duplicate amulet, and then tossed it aside with a frustrated sigh. "Will you behave, elf? I would very much like to get a closer look at these markings, and a willing subject would be so much more pleasant to work with." He spoke as if Fenris had a choice in the matter, which was all the more infuriating.

Fenris's head was pounding from being held upside down, but he managed to spit out a very strongly worded suggestion about where Hawke could find a willing subject. The mage was less than impressed, and Fenris was abruptly dropped. Although he managed to catch himself before hitting the ground too hard, the room still spun as the blood drained from his head. When he attempted to run, a heavy force hit his back, staggering him, and then he was flipped over as Hawke put his foot on Fenris's chest, pressing him into the ground. "You are being rude, elf. I detest bad manners." Fenris, for the first time, doubted his posture of defiance, but decided that it was too late to change course now. Hawke knelt and put a hand to one of Fenris's markings, and Fenris tried to lash out, only to find himself frozen where he lay. Fenris bit his lip to keep from crying out as searing pain ran along his markings, icy amd fierce in its strength, and was nervous when he saw Hawke draw his knife. Delicately, the mage sliced across one of the marks, and the blade seemed to skip over the lyrium. Hawke caught him watching, and said simply, "I would not want to damage the most valuable asset. Your lyrium spares your life, but not your hide." 

Fenris spat and swore in Tevene, but the words died on his lips when Hawke gave a flick of his wrist, and out snapped a cat of nine tails made of pure energy. Now would be a good time to capitulate, but he knew that it was too late. The next second, he was dangling in the air, bracing for the first blow.

The lash cut deep, not merely a trick of the Fade, but a real, physical object that ripped away flesh. Three blows were enough to make him scream; by the time it was ten, he was sobbing. Hawke did not stop until twenty, and Fenris was a limp, quivering, bleeding mess on the floor. Hawke rang a bell, sitting back at his desk, and Kolya appeared soon after, clearly waiting nearby. "Fenris needs a lesson in manners, Kolya. I expect the next time he will present with improvement. He also seems to have no problem with theft. I believe you know my feelings on the subject." Hawke had already moved on, sharpening a quill as he read a letter, but Kolya still bowed low, shooting Fenris an annoyed glance.

"I will take care of it, Master Hawke."

Kolya was surprisingly strong, and dragged Fenris along after his legs went out, and bodily threw Fenris into a cell. Before leaving, he said quietly, "We all have a place, elf. It need not be unbearable; there are worse masters to serve." Fenris did not have the energy to express his opinion of Kolya's pep talk, panting against the stones as he tried to master the occasional whimpers that burst out of him. His wounds ripped open whenever he moved, and he could still feel tacky blood oozing over his skin. Danarius had never physically harmed him, fearing damage to the lyrium. Fenris missed that caution, missed being too valuable to mark. When pain finally drove him to pass out, he was grateful, although a part of him knew that things would only get worse before they got better.


	4. Manners

Kolya was worse than any magister. He took Fenris's disobedience personally. It was clear that he was devoted to Hawke, fanatically so, and Fenris's performance had somehow reflected badly on Kolya. In recompense, Fenris was kept in that cell without any food, and no one came to treat the lash marks across his back. Had that been the extent of it, he could have laughed at the pompous twit. There came a time when guards came to take him out out of the cell. Fenris thought his punishment was over, and so docilely staggered to his feet and allowed his wrists to be shackled. He was bone weary as it was, having found little rest over the long hours, and likely would have found it too painful to put up much of a fight. It was only when Kolya arrived, lash in hand, that he had an inkling of danger, and by then it was too late. He was strung up by a hook in the ceiling, forced to stand on his tiptoes to relieve the strain in his shoulders. 

Fenris, that he could remember, had never felt the sting of a real lash, and assumed the imitation of the Fade had been a rough equivalent. He was wrong. The bite of real leather was worse than any magic. Kolya made him count each hit aloud; if he missed a number or didn't respond, the count was restarted. When he finally reached ten, he was slumped in his chains, the scream in his shoulders the least of his concerns. By way of cleaning, he was doused with a bucket of ice cold water before being taken off the hook and thrown back in the cell, barely coherent. When they took him out again, he put up a pathetically weak fight. And then again, only this time, to his shame, he sobbed and begged. Kolya was utterly indifferent. It was an experience unlike any in his life; Danarius had valued his presence at his side too much to administer such lasting agony, and he certainly had never left a mark. 

Kolya was also relentless. Fenris had some time to himself, but always Kolya was coming back, always he asked Fenris a few questions, and then always Fenris received lashes. In time, Fenris learned what Kolya was looking for - he learned to kneel, to avoid eye contact, to say please and thank you, to cower and simper and be everything that he was not. He hated himself for caving, but groveling spared him from the worst of the beatings, and sometimes it even earned him some bread and water. This in turn kept him relatively healthy. Alive and alert enough, at least, that when Kolya came to him and said, "Master Hawke will see you now - would you like to see him, elf?" he did not snarl or struggle or weep, but rather said, "Please." He nearly choked on the word, but was rewarded with Kolya pausing and saying, "Better. I will ask." He still made Fenris count to ten afterwards, but the promise helped him get through it.

Fenris wasn't sure what that meant, but found that it entailed following Kolya that night, staggering along. He was covered from head to toe in dirt and grime, a mass of total bruises, back riddled with marks from the lash, old and new mingling together into an agonizing mess. Hunger had made him weak, too - he could barely stay on his feet, barely string together coherent thoughts. They arrived in a small sitting room where Master Hawke was quietly reading. Bethany was there, too, running her fingers through her older brother's hair, chatting away. Her eyes flicked to Kolya and Fenris, and she paused in her narrative, but it was clear that Garrett was not going to look up any time soon. Bethany gave Fenris a reassuring smile - he blanched and quickly looked away, terrified at having been caught staring - and then continued her story. 

He knelt on the floor at Kolya's gesture. The marble was painfully hard, and the room swayed around him. Fenris tried to remember why, exactly, he had been so angry before, so determined to rebel. He could vaguely recall the emotions, but couldn't muster the energy to care. In the end, however, nothing happened. Hawke and Bethany continued to speak, and then wandered out together, and Kolya directed Fenris back to the dormitory.

The next time he went in front of his master, Fenris was barely conscious; Kolya had heard him muttering some very choice words after a particular beating. Hawke was alone this time, eating from an array of food and penning a letter with a bored expression on his face. The mage's eyes flicked over the pair when they entered, but he simply continued writing after a moment's pause. Hunger sharpening all his senses, Fenris couldn't help but stare as Hawke bit into a strawberry, a bit of juice running down the corner of his mouth as his lips languidly slid over the tender flesh. A harsh blow to the back of his head made Fenris cower and drop his gaze, lying prostrate on the floor. There he remained, trying not to shake or call too much attention to himself. Attention, he was learning, was bad.

"Come here, little wolf."

Fenris wearily crawled forward. His stomach gave a loud growl as he got closer to the table. Delectable aromas wafted through the air, making his mouth water. He was staring at the food again, and heard someone clear their throat - startled, he glanced over and saw Hawke watching him, one eyebrow raised. Fenris flinched once more, waiting for Hawke to send him away and back into Kolya's vindictive hands.

Instead, a calloused hand gripped his chin, forcing his gaze back up. His master lived up to his family name - those golden eyes were as fierce and sharp as any raptor. Hawke said quietly, "Manners, Fenris. Use your words."

Fenris's eyes darted around, unable to hold the man's gaze. He wasn't sure his voice worked anymore - too much screaming. But after licking his dry lips, he rasped out, "Please." It had been the word that got him in front of the mage, at least - maybe it'd get him some food, too.

"Please _what_?" Although exasperated, Hawke at least did not seem angry. That had to be good. 

Hardly daring to believe that it might make a difference, Fenris forced himself to say, "Please, Master Hawke - can I eat?" It was not perfect - his voice broke and fell and started and stopped, taking a great deal of effort to get anywhere - but in the end it came out. Fenris jerked away when he saw Hawke reach out, but the mage merely ran his fingers through Fenris's filthy hair, and said, "Better." Hawke reached out to his plate and tore off a few pieces of chicken, dropping them on the floor.

Fenris looked at the chicken and up at Hawke, but the mage had returned to his letter. It was clear what had to be done, and, swallowing his pride, Fenris ate every last bit of that meat off of the floor. He knew he had done well when he finished the last lick off the floor and another few pieces landed next to him. Dignity was forgotten - the need to fill his belly was too overwhelming, the hint of food causing him to salivate. There wasn't so much as a crumb left. No more food was dropped, but Hawke cleared his throat again, and Fenris peaked up. A piece of bread was in Hawke's hand, held down at Fenris's eye level. It wasn't the dry, moldy scrap he had been fed when Kolya was particularly satisfied with his performance. No, this was a fresh loaf, a golden crust, fluffy, delectable dough. It was also firmly in Hawke's hand. Fenris knew a critical choice lay before him, knew what he was being asked to give up. Well. What was being demanded, actually. He could feel Kolya's eyes boring into the back of his head. Slowly, he moved forward, and gingerly took the scrap, chewing slowly. His cheeks flushed when Hawke patted his head like a dog, but he remained kneeling at his side. Gradually, he was rewarded. For the first time in forever, the meal ended and Fenris's stomach was full. A full stomach made everything better. "Bring him to my study." All Fenris knew was relief; he would not have to return to the dormitory, where a blood-soaked lash awaited him.

He scrambled backward at Hawke's nod, and followed Kolya back to the study, feeling sleepy now that his hunger was abated. He knelt, he stayed, and he just gave a weary nod when Kolya informed him that there would be consequences for a bad report. Fenris didn't know how long he waited - he fell asleep on the ground, jerking awake when a boot nudged him in the side. 

Hawke looked down at him, brow quirked. "Will you behave this time?" Fenris nodded, and when he felt Hawke's boot dig into his side more, said quickly, "Yes, Master Hawke." 

The mage gave his head a pat. "Good. Strip and get on the table."

Fenris nearly wept. The idea of his lash marks against the rough wood filled him with dread. The alternative, of course, was refusing and ending up back in Kolya's hands, possibly for good. So, hands shaky with more than just weariness, he stood up drew off his clothes, shivering at the exposure. At the impatient noise Hawke made, he hopped onto the table, and slowly lowered himself back. It hurt as much as he thought it would, but he bit back any noise of discomfort. "Turn around." Fenris obeyed this particular order gratefully, even mumbled a "Thank you, Master Hawke" that wasn't entirely audible. He felt rough hands against his back and braced himself for agony - instead, he felt a cool, cold magic sinking into his skin. He wriggled around under it, shifting uncomfortably, but then realized that the pain in his back was abating. Healing magic. He was actually receiving healing magic. His lyrium tingled, but not painfully - it spread a deep warmness into his very bones, easing aches he didn't even remember having. 

It was hard to tell how long it lasted, but when the magic let up, Fenris could move without feeling his skin break open, without feeling a bone creak or shift, without a bruise to protest. It left him a little giddy. "Thank you, Master Hawke." This time he put some enthusiasm into it - he was worried that the mage might take it back if he wasn't satisfied with the thanks. Mages could do tricky things like that.

Once more Hawke simply patted his head, and then said briskly, "Now. Let us begin."

The inspection was definitely not as soothing as getting his wounds healed. Hawke grilled him with questions, ran magic through the lyrium, tugged and pulled and treated Fenris like the slab of meat that he was - exotic, strange, but still an object. Fenris, surprisingly, could not muster up any outrage at the treatment. It was a little amusing, in fact. Hawke's brows were furrowed in intense, genuine curiousity. Every now and then it hurt, and certainly he had a brusque way of addressing the various indignities Fenris had endured at Danarius's hand - and was more clinically interested than sympathetically sensitive when he learned that the pain of the procedure had literally driven all previous memory from Fenris's head - but even Fenris could tell that there was no malice in the man's probing, no genuine sadism. 

At long last, Hawke let him leave. As Fenris was quickly pulling on his clothes again, Hawke said idly, "You will return tomorrow night as well. And Fenris - you will never appear in this state again."

He was startled, and couldn't help but show it. "I - what state, Master Hawke?"

"You're filthy. Get a rag and clean yourself so that I don't feel as if I'm swimming in oil just by touching you."

Fenris stared, and then flushed a deep red, bowing low and mumbling some sort of assent. He was mortified - it hadn't even occurred to him. Next to the mage, in this room, smelling lightly of incense, he became acutely aware of the dirt and grime clinging to him, the oily hair, the stink of sweat and general foulness. He fled quickly, not sure why it was so embarrassing - it wasn't his fault. He didn't have a copper bath big enough to swim in, he wasn't surrounded by servants attending his every need, he couldn't...that night Fenris found a cold bucket of water and an old rag, and scrubbed his skin until it was raw. He was a slave. He was servile. He would not give Hawke another reason to look at him as though he were some animal. If he were to bear up under it, if he were to conform and adopt these _manners_...well, at least he would do so like a man. And Kolya, he reflected after a moment, had been right. There were worse masters to serve.


	5. Syzygy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. for anyone curious, I base Hawke's typical attire off of the Amell's Ancestral Arms mod ([robes](http://static-3.nexusmods.com/15/mods/141/images/3053-1-1313379860.png) and [armor](http://static-3.nexusmods.com/15/mods/141/images/3053-1-1313380008.png))

Hawke closed off his connection to the Fade, shaking out his hands. "One last look, Fenris." The elf murmured an assent and sat up, staring up at the ceiling as Hawke began running his hands over Fenris's body, running magic into the lyrium along the way. Hawke had yet to unravel the mystery of the markings. He had found that all effects of magic were amplified. The blood magic that now bound them in ways Hawke had not anticipated. He could reach out and 'touch' Fenris from anywhere, be it a soft nudge or a more cutting blow, he could reach into the slave's mind and feel his thoughts, taste his memories. Fenris was easier to heal for Hawke than any others - he also felt more pain when Hawke inflicted it on him. It was partially the lyrium, of course; Garrett had yet to figure out how Danarius had managed it. An infinite supply of lyrium! Growing lyrium. No matter how many times Garrett pulled from Fenris, the lyrium quantity remained the same. Fascinating. Fenris and the lyrium were one and separate. When Garrett reached into Fenris's head via the blood magic, he could feel the Fade sitting there, literally anchored to Fenris's body. He felt like he could study him for a lifetime and never find all the answers that he wanted. It was the type of puzzle he always enjoyed and rarely had time to indulge in, given the pressing need to continue strengthening his magic and keep himself involved in the social games of Minrathos. 

Fenris was back to full health. As Fenris got stronger, so did the lyrium. Garrett was considering reinstating him as a bodyguard - he could see why Danarius had gone that route, although evidently it hadn't helped the man much in the end. Fenris was generally compliant now that a little bit of fear had been put into him. He answered Hawke's questions honestly and shortly, and rarely hesitated when given an order. It was hard to tell if it was fear of repercussions or genuine obedience, which was why Garrett hesitated at the idea of the elf standing ready with a sword. Seemed silly to trust your life to someone who likely wanted to cut your throat at the first real chance.

Fenris shifted under his hands, and Hawke glanced up, drawn out of his thoughts - usually Fenris was a perfect patient. Fenris was staring up at the ceiling, as he usually did, but there was a light flush on his cheeks. Puzzled at his embarrassment, Hawke glanced around, trying to figure out what had happened, and realized it was because of the examination. There was a line of lyrium running up the elf's cock - aesthetically pleasing, yes, but rather unnecessary; Danarius had always been a bit of a sadist - and Garrett was running his thumb up the line, as he had done many times before. He had never given it much thought before, but he could see that this time, at least, Fenris had grown a little hard at the touch. Garrett was surprised, absently wondering if it had happened before. It seemed unlikely. While Fenris had showed no further sign of rebellion, he had been beaten and starved as per Garrett's orders. That was sufficient reason, even for a slave, to hate a man. Garrett did not get hard at the touch of a man he hated. Fenris's responsiveness was puzzling...Hawke thumbed the line of lyrium again, watching closely this time. He saw Fenris's lips part ever so slightly, an unmistakable catch in his breath. Hawke indulged in the sight, the little furrow in Fenris's brow, the deepening flush in his cheeks as Hawke's hand lingered. Then he released Fenris, going to a basin to wash his hands and dismissing the slave. Fenris barely dressed before fleeing.

Garrett put the curiosity out of his mind for a few days, called into the middle of a bit of a scandal involving a couple of First Enchanters and their apprentices which was resolved with one First Enchanter fleeing the city in shame. His second night home from that delicious fest of intrigue, Kolya brought Fenris to his study once more. Hawke was penning a letter, back to the pair. "Thank you, Kolya. You may go." The slave bowed low and left - Fenris's eyes followed him out warily. It was hard to let go of the memory of someone savagely beating you. 

Hawke's back was still to Fenris, so he felt more comfortable with studying the man, feeling a bit tense. Hawke was...odd. There were many similarities between his new master and his old one. They were both intelligent. They both craved power, magic and otherwise. But wherein Danarius's hunger for power had made him cruel, Hawke's made him focused. The man had an intensity about him in everything he did. Months of study now, and Fenris had learned that often Hawke forgot that he was dealing with a living subject. The man could be cold, it was true - he was impatient when Fenris flinched, ignored it when his study caused pain. But he took no pleasure from the act, indeed barely noted it except to add to his observations, and certainly never extended the pain beyond the length of the study. Between the threat of abuse from guards and Kolya's lasting wrath, Fenris had found that the safest place for him to be was in Hawke's study, a thought that amused him ever so slightly. To think that he _preferred_ being in a mage's company was...ridiculous.

Given the amount of time spent in Hawke's company, there was no point in denying he found himself acclimating to the new master. He got good meals now that he wasn't pushing boundaries, he was clothed and washed and compared to a life of torture and violence with Danarius, it was very nearly pleasant. The only problem with the arrangement was the physical contact. After he had gotten used to the study, seen that Hawke truly was entirely clinical about the process, he had become more comfortable with proceedings. The problem with relaxing as a man ran his hands over you - a handsome, well built man smelling pleasantly of musk and a pleasant sort of pine - is that relaxing led to enjoying. For awhile, it wasn't too bad. Then there would be moments when he would become hyper aware; the feel of Hawke's callouses against his skin, a warm puff of breath as Hawke leaned in to study a marking, catching Hawke bent over his sheet of notes and biting his lip...sudden flashes that made him stir, made his mouth go dry and his heart race. Fenris was furious at himself - his hatred of mages had not abated, he couldn't believe he was getting worked up by a pretty face - and at nights he tried to get himself off, to maybe ease the animal urges (it could be nothing else, he told himself darkly, than the fact that he hadn't been with someone in...awhile; otherwise this unsavory attraction would have no hold on him). That worked for a bit, until he realized that he was just holding Hawke's face in his head whenever he touched himself. Foolishly, he made himself stop, overcome with shame. A week later, with the mage standing uncomfortably close and running his hand over Fenris's cock...he had made a little nose in the back of the throat, and been terrified that Hawke had heard it, shifting to look at the mage's face. The sound had been missed - the movement had not. A small part of him had been disappointed when Hawke dismissed him, and he loathed that small part. That part of him was a traitor, pathetic, a dog licking at a master's heels. He would not let it rule him.

"Elf, I do not live my life at your leisure - why are you just standing there?" Fenris's eyes went wide as he realized that he was still staring at Hawke's back - thankfully the mage hadn't turned around yet, but the silence must have told him that Fenris was not preparing for the examination. Hastily he stripped, tossing the plain cotton trappings aside. 

Despite his admonishment, Hawke continued to write for several minutes longer before he pushed back his chair from the desk and turned his attention on Fenris. Instead of ordering the slave onto the table as he did, he took the time to get a real look at him. He knew all about the slave's time with Danarius and Hadriana. He knew about the memory loss, had carefully probed the elf's mind as he was questioned to make sure that he was not being lied to. He knew that the elf was well-conditioned, too - the beatings that Kolya had given would have killed a being with lesser will. But Hawke had never really taken the elf in as a whole. There was a pleasant cast in the green of his eyes, peeking out from white bangs, a lithe curve to his shoulders, an elegance in his hands, a grace in even his slight movements. Hawke liked power in his partners, liked to feel challenged (and to conquer that challenge) in bed. Normally he discounted elves, too slight and frail to match that level of strength. This one, however...slight, true, and Hawke knew he could overpower him; Fenris had lost muscle since the transfer of his ownership. But Fenris was still raw, enticing, a heady mix of ferocity, defiance, intelligence...and submission. Hawke's blood warmed at the thought.

Fenris had clearly noted his prolonged study, and appeared uncomfortable, clasping his hands in front of himself as if to shield his body from view before letting his hands hang at his side with a visible effort. Hawke smiled at the gesture, and then impulsively got to his feet, stepping close. Fenris flinched at the suddenness of his movement, but Hawke simply lay a hand on the elf's shoulder, letting his touch trail down Fenris's chest, avoiding the sensitive skin along the lyrium markings. He rested his hand at long last on Fenris's hip, gently cupping one of the marks. "Fenris, look at me."

At first, he thought that Fenris would refuse, but then the elf's chin slowly lifted. His eyes held such a volatile cocktail of emotions - hate, anger, fear, resentment, yes, but also desire, need, confusion, an open book to study - that Hawke found himself smiling. Fenris flushed and looked away, no doubt disconcerted with the atypical attention, his eyes darting back to Hawke's face with fervent uncertainty. Hawke considered probing around his mind through the amulet, seeing what the elf was thinking, but wrote it off for another time. He was enjoying not knowing, tasting Fenris's discomfort and lust all in one.

"Danarius never touched you?"

Now Fenris was scarlet. Despite the elf's humiliation, Hawke was amused to see Fenris's cock twitch. He did not prompt Fenris, patiently waiting for a reply. At last, Fenris muttered, "Magister Danarius was afraid of me. He preferred I stood guard when he was...entertaining." Sometimes he had been given a girl as a reward for killing someone, or just because Danarius had felt indulgent. But never had the magister showed interest in Fenris, not personally. Fenris's voice was the only thing composed about his person - he might as well have been discussing the weather.

" _I_ am not afraid of you," Hawke pointed out with a quirk of his brow.

Fenris was once more silence for several long breaths, a tendon in his neck standing out under the weight of the tension he carried. At last, he managed to hold his master's gaze. "No, Master Hawke. You are not."

Hawke felt his smile growing. "Stand still, Fenris." He did not wait for assent, but instead concentrated on the hand covering Fenris's hip, channeling a gentle stream of magic through the markings. Fenris grew tense at first, no doubt expecting pain; then his lips parted in a surprised gasp. Hawke was pumping pleasure through the lyrium, flames that did not burn or consume, but washed over Fenris, caressed, licked, gently spreading as it warmed. Fenris could not maintain the pretense of indifference under such a magic, unable to bite back the moan that grew at the back of his throat. Hawke eased up on the magic, but then gripped Fenris's cock - now hard - and stroked it a few times. "Danarius was truly never tempted?" he asked, gently thumbing the line of lyrium. Fenris let out a whine, gritting his teeth even as he shook his head. Hawke enjoyed watching the internal struggle, and lightly chastised, "Use your words, Fenris, we've talked about this." He continued to stroke Fenris's shaft, catching some of the pre-cum leaking from the tip to ease the friction. He channeled just a little splurge of pleasure, and Fenris jerked up onto his tiptoes in surprise, bracing his hand against Hawke's chest without seeming to realize it in order to stop from pitching over. "Words, Fenris."

"Y-yes, M-master - I mean, no, n-no, Master Hawke, he never - !" Fenris's voice was tight and breathless as he struggled to stay in control, and another moan escaped his lips as Hawke chuckled.

"Then he was a fool." Fenris was shaking his head, now bodily leaning into Hawke, gripping the mage's robe. "Would you like me to stop, little wolf?" Consciously or unconsciously, Fenris was beginning to thrust with Hawke's strokes. When the elf didn't respond, Hawke slowed down, and then began removing his hand - he was rewarded with an almost desperate whimper.

"Please, Master Hawke."

Encouraging Fenris with a few soft strokes, Hawke prompted, "Please _what_ , Fenris?"

Fenris shivered, and Hawke was certain that the slave's prideful streak would prevent him from taking the bait. Then, to Hawke's astonishment, Fenris managed to say, "Please, Master Hawke - please touch my cock." The little quiver in his voice, the desperation, the need - Hawke was not inclined to refuse. He stroked Fenris's cock, slowly feeding magic into the lyrium, and it was not long before the hand gripping his robe flexed and Fenris came with a little cry that was equal parts relief and displeasure. Hawke was careful to stand to the side as the slave's cum splattered against the marble floors, thankfully missing the nice carpet; he was rather fond of that rug, a stain just wouldn't do. As Fenris stood trembling, hands back at his side, Hawke took his seat once more, and said simply, "Clean it up, elf." 

Fenris blinked at him in a confused daze, and then looked around, eyes landing on the pile of discarded clothes. Drawing out the shirt, he got on his hands and knees and began cleaning his cum off the floor, still flushed and shaking under Hawke's gaze. Overcome with curiosity, Garrett fished out the amulet, and ventured into Fenris's head. There was a startled spark as Fenris realized what Hawke was doing, followed by a faint echo of fear. The elf was trying to control himself, to block Hawke, but it was useless. Hawke tasted his shame, shame that grew as Fenris realized Hawke could see it. Or perhaps, shame because Hawke could feel the elf lingering on the pleasure, head full of Hawke's touch and Hawke's scent. There were fantasies there, faint wisps of heady passion and nights spent trying to desperately expel that need alone in the dark, so inextricably tied to the toxic mix of hate and fear that Fenris felt at being enslaved to a mage that the two tasted like a heavenly ambrosia. Hawke stroked the amulet, and saw Fenris give a shudder as the ghost of a touch ran over him. Hawke got to taste the spicy blast of fury and indignation even as he tasted a sweetness that could only be longing. He withdrew from Fenris's mind, and put the amulet away, curiosity satisfied.

Fenris was done scrubbing at the floor, and asked tentatively, "Should I leave now, Master Hawke?" The composure was back in his voice - Hawke had always been impressed with the control Fenris had over his emotions. Perhaps it was due to the markings; like a mage, Fenris had to be cautious to control his feelings, or else the lyrium would flare out of control. No doubt the elf would be offended at the comparison. Still, no amount of composure in his voice could hide the fact that Fenris was already leaning to the door. He wanted to flee the scene.

Garrett quirked a brow at the elf, and said, "You are not done cleaning up, Fenris." His hand stood waiting, held out for Fenris, glistening with partially dried cum. Fenris stared at his hand for a moment, and then slowly looked up at Garrett. There was a question in his eyes, one that he could not bring himself to voice. One that he did not need to voice. Slowly, he crawled forward, and he did not even bother trying to use the shirt. Lowering his eyes, he took Hawke's fingers in his mouth and gently sucked on them, cleaning his cum from those fingers and trying not to think about how quickly he had caved. Hawke drew his fingers out of Fenris's mouth when he was satisfied that they had been cleaned, and then prompted quietly, "What do you say, elf?"

Fenris licked his lips, nervous. He was curiously relaxed after his orgasm, but he felt more uncertain than ever, certainly unsure of what to make of Hawke's sudden attention beyond the clinical study. "Thank you?" He saw a flash of irritation in Hawke's eyes, and hurriedly corrected himself. "Thank you, Master Hawke."

The sharp look in Hawke's eye softened as the man leaned back in the chair, knees sprawled out lazily. "Better." Golden eyes surveyed Fenris in silence, and then Hawke said, "In this instance, however, there are better ways of using your mouth to thank me than with words." He had not moved, he did not expand on what he meant, but Fenris's eyes darted down to the slight bulge in the man's breeches before he looked away, cheeks turning even redder than before. Hawke watched him with a lopsided smile, but when it became clear that Fenris was going to remain unmoving, said delicately, "I expect proper manners, elf." 

Still Fenris remained frozen in place, an amusing parade of indignation marching across his face. If he hadn't believed Fenris before, he certainly would now - it was clear that the elf had never been asked to service anyone. Equally as clear was that Fenris thought such a thing beneath him. Amusing, really, coming from a slave. Generously deciding that Fenris's inaction was due to nerves and inexperience, Hawke leaned down to take one of Fenris's hands in his own, bringing it to press against his groin, gently curling the fingers around the waist of his trousers. Fenris's hand remained where Hawke had put it, and Hawke took the elf's jaw in hand, tilting up his head and forcing Fenris to look him in the eye. Gold stared into green without a hint of malice, but with all the certainty and unyielding weight of command. "Manners, little wolf," Hawke said quietly, and then leaned back once more.

Fenris stared up at Hawke, breathing a little heavily, and then slowly, hesitantly inched closer. He looked about ready to bolt. Hawke did not move to help or guide him; watching Fenris fight his own distaste was better than any display of force. Finally Fenris found it in himself to untie the laces of Hawke's breeches with shaky fingers, pushing the sash holding his robe closed and the tunic under his robe up a little as he jerked the breeches down. Hawke was already hard, and let out a little grunt - it felt good to be free of trappings. It was incredible how erotic it was to watch Fenris hesitate. The elf licked his lips as he eyed up Hawke's cock, now swaying slightly as Hawke readjusted in the chair. It was not a gesture of desire, Hawke was sure - Fenris appeared to be steeling himself. He considered simply ordering the elf, but decided to wait it out, and was rewarded by the flush of satisfaction when Fenris hesitantly pressed his mouth to the head. 

"Use your tongue." Hawke watched Fenris's tentative movements, drinking in the sight of the elf's lips closing around his shaft. Fenris's tongue swirled around the head, and then he took a little more cock. The sensation of Fenris's warm, tight mouth slowly sinking over him made his breath catch for a moment. Fenris continued to run his tongue in circles as he sucked, but he had stopped trying to take more. "All of it," Hawke said, voice getting low and rough. For a moment, Fenris tried to take him deeper, but quickly gagged and backed off, eyes darting up to Hawke's with laughable panic. Hawke ran his fingers through Fenris's hair, eyes half-closed as he simply enjoyed the sensation. A moment later, he sucked in a breath as Fenris unexpectedly pulled back, exposing Hawke's cock to the cool air, and then Fenris was kissing his way down Hawke's shaft, tongue drawing little spirals. Soon he was deftly working Hawke's balls, and the mage let out a short curse under his breath, head going back. Either Fenris was more eager than Hawke gave him credit for, or he wanted this over quick - he began stroking Hawke's shaft with his hand as he played with his balls. Hawke gripped the arm of his chair, hips arching slightly to thrust into Fenris's hand, into the heat, into the friction, other hand grabbing a fistful of Fenris's hair. Fenris's surprised whimper alerted him to the unconscious gesture, and he loosened his grip, but kept his hand in place. Fenris's tongue ran up his shaft in one broad stroke before his lips once more wrapped around Hawke's cock where they belonged. He sucked and stroked, hands compensating for lack of depth, gaining confidence and creativity as he felt his master react to his different touches. Hawke had no need to guide him, and soon he was fucking the slave's mouth, getting incrementally deeper and then - !

Fenris did not need instruction. He swallowed what he could, and licked his master's cock clean. It was exquisite torture to feel that deft little tongue swirl around his head so soon after orgasm, a torture the mage happily suffered. Hawke let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and smiled lazily at Fenris. The slave would not meet his eye, so Hawke contented himself with running his fingers through Fenris's hair, running a finger up the tip of his ear, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. That had been quicker than he had anticipated. There had been something there, an unexpected excitement for Hawke - and an unexpected enthusiasm from Fenris. "There's a good boy." A very good boy. "You may return to the dormitory." Fenris, scarlet-faced, executed a jerky bow and then fled, not even bothering to redress. Hawke grinned at the slave's hasty retreat, and tucked himself back into his trousers, humming tunelessly. Now _that_ was a development well worth further study.


	6. Tomorrow

Fenris came to his senses back in the dormitory, perched on the side of his bed. His chest was heaving in an effort to catch his breath, eyes watering from lack of air, legs shaking from the dead sprint that had brought him here. Try as he might, though, he couldn't outrun what he had left behind. He couldn't outrun the golden-eyed mage, nor the strange effect the man had on him. It had to be the blood magic working in his head, compelling him to kneel when he would prefer defiance, submit when every instinct screamed at him to fight. It was blood magic, too, that had awakened this hunger in him, a deep rooted desire that had been...had been...well, there was no point dwelling, and he would rather not think of...that.

A part of him whispered that he hadn't wanted to say no. That the excuse of servitude and bondage and blood magic merely served to justify him caving. He ignored that voice. Fenris groaned, rubbing his head as if to scrub out the memories, taunted by his own mind. This was not him! Next time, he would not be an overeager pup. The mage wouldn't know what hit him. 

With a start, Fenris realized someone was standing at the end of his bed. Kolya. His eyes narrowed on the man warily, and he got hastily to his feet when Kolya reached out. It took him a moment to realize that the man was not moving to hit him, but rather offering a package. And smiling - _smiling!_ It had not taken Fenris (or any of the former-Magister-Danarius's slaves) long to learn that Kolya had a particular dislike of elves. Even after Fenris had returned to good behavior, Kolya had reserved a special look for him as if eyeing up a particularly appalling smear of shit on his shoe. But no. No, there was no trace of dislike now. _Smiling._ It made Fenris's skin crawl.

He took the offered parcel, and peeked into it cautiously lest something nasty jump out. Instead, he saw clothes. Shirts and breeches and smalls, all of a much finer quality than the rough wool he wore now. Kolya, still beaming, said, "You have done well. Don't fuck it up." The blonde left Fenris, who remained staring at the bundle, confused. Weariness now sapped at his limbs, coming on so rapidly that he struggled to stay awake enough to carefully tuck away his only possessions. Stealing from fellow slaves was not unheard of, and even though he disliked the origins of the "reward," he nonetheless looked forward to wearing something that didn’t constantly itch and fray. He fell asleep reciting a mantra to himself - tomorrow. Tomorrow would bring change.

He was awoken by a few sharp jabs to his ribs and sat up quickly, tangled in his sheets and nearly toppling out of bed. The guard who had jabbed him with a baton was watching impassively, and when Fenris righted himself and shook off enough sleep to focus on him, simply said, "Get dressed, elf, and follow."

Although not forgetting the promise he had made to himself to rebel, Fenris decided that it was not wise to begin his rebellion naked with a man armed with a stout stick and the arm muscles of a blacksmith. He dressed quickly, privately pleased with the feel of soft cotton against his skin, and trotted after the guardsman. As they passed one of the open courtyards, Fenris realized that the sun was not even high enough to top the manor walls. What could possibly be expected of him this early? 

He was brought to the practice yards, and the guardsman used his baton to press down on Fenris's shoulder, 'encouraging' him to kneel, which he did readily enough. He waited for some time before at last, Hawke arrived, in discussion with a grizzled man that Fenris vaguely recognized; he had been one of the Hawke's original servants, although Fenris couldn't think of the man's actual role. Kolya trailed by at Hawke's heels, and his eyes narrowed on Fenris kneeling at the edge of the yard. As expected, Fenris's recent successes had done little to improve his stature in the man's eyes, and there was no hint of the smile from last night. Bloody hypocrite; he was a slave, too, human or not. He was no better than Fenris.

"This the one?" the grizzled man asked. Hawke merely nodded, and the man grunted. He looked distinctly disappointed, and Fenris quickly cast his eyes on the ground, shoulders rigid. "Well, he'll need fattening up. But I suppose if what you say is true...we'll get him properly trained." Fenris peaked up, surprised, and found himself under the critical eye of everyone present. The attention was unnerving, more so when he realized that none of them, not even Hawke, seemed particularly pleased with what they saw. 

Hawke was silent for several moments before saying calmly, "I trust your judgement, Cyrus. Do as you must. When you are done with him for the day, send him to me. Kolya, attend Cyrus." The slave master bowed, and the mage left abruptly. Fenris was a bit disgruntled; he didn't want attention, but he hadn't expected to be treated like...like a piece of furniture. Hawke had been nearly bored.

He was not given long to dwell on his wounded pride. Cyrus - Fenris was still trying to place him in the hierarchy, but it was clear that he was a freeman and thus someone to be wary of - walked around him, muttering to himself. "Well, might as well begin," he said at last with a sigh. He turned to the guardsman who had brought Fenris and said, "Twice around the manor. No stopping."

The guardsman saluted. "Yes, Captain." Well, there was Fenris's answer. The Captain of the household guard. But that meant...hum. He was getting trained up again as a bodyguard? Hawke had seemed disinterested in the idea before; surely his mind hadn't been changed just by...'the incident.' There had to be another purpose in mind, but for the life of him, Fenris couldn't imagine wh - 

A sharp rap to the top of his head startled him out of his musings. "Move!" the guardsman snapped. Fenris got to his feet slowly, and received a less gentle blow to the back which made him stumble forward several steps. "You heard the Captain; run!" Fenris tried to dodge the next blow, and decided it was best to obey, although he didn't entirely understand what was happening. He began running forward, and the guardsman followed, shepherding him out of the estate and into the pale morning light. Anytime that Fenris's feet began to flag, he received another blow. He had not exercised for months; between extended periods in a cell and starvation, he found himself pathetically diminished. Soon he was gasping for breath and barely stumbling in front of the guardsman, but the man was relentless, driving Fenris onward with cruel blows. The first lap around the manor was agony; the second, torture. By the time they were back in the training yard, Fenris was staggering like a drunk, occasionally trying to scrabble forward on all fours. He collapsed in a heap at the end, hands on his chest as he fought to draw breath.

They were not done with him. For a few minutes, he was alone, and then out came the Captain, who eyed him contemptuously. He didn't have a baton in hand, but a switch, and Fenris's eyes widened slightly on it. If they made him run again.... "On the circuit, elf, move!" The circuit, as it turned out, was a series of exercises in a circle. He was expected to run through several reps at each station, and Cyrus was free with his use of the switch. Fenris's legs were already on the verge of collapse; soon, the rest of his body was equally as weary. Only the fear of consequences of refusing to go on kept him moving, although towards the end his attempts to complete the circuit one more time were practically nonexistent. At last, Cyrus called on him to stop. Water and bread and some cold meats had been brought out, and Cyrus directed him to eat quietly whilst he consulted with Kolya.

Fenris fell on the food and water eagerly. He could hear Cyrus speaking with Kolya, outlining a dietary plan for Fenris intended to help him gain weight. It was clear that this training was going to be long-term, and his shoulders slumped slightly. Any attempts to escape would have to wait; he wouldn't get ten feet from the house after a workout like that, nonetheless put enough distance between him and his master to be able to slip away. Of course, if they were getting him in shape...sword in hand, restored to his former strength, escape would be far more likely. Perhaps it was a matter merely of patience.

He was too tired to glare when Kolya snapped, "Elf, come." For now, he decided with a stronger resolve, thoughts more coherent with nourishment, it was better to play along. Instead of fighting, he let out a sigh, wiping his mouth - he had wolfed it all down - and plodded behind the man obediently. His limbs did not want to listen to his brain; he stumbled along, vision blurry. It cleared when a switch lashed across his back - Kolya, of course. "You are to begin learning dinner service, among other things. Can you manage to pour wine for now?" It was only then that Fenris registered he had been in training all day. He understood that Kolya was not honestly asking him if he was capable; he was expected to wait on his master. So he merely nodded, and tried to convince himself that he still had the strength to trudge on for just a little longer.

To say that it was a disaster would imply that dinner glasses had an impact on the state of the world. It had not, however, gone well. He should have known better than to hope he could scrape by. It started with his hands, shaking from exhaustion; slopped the wine terribly. The only reason it did not splash across Master Hawke's robes was, he suspected, a result more of magic (he felt the tingle run up his arm). Neither Hawke nor Bethany so much as looked up; if it hadn't been for the unlikely physics and the sensation buzzing from his lyrium markings, Fenris would have thought that neither noticed. He managed to pour the wine for the twins without incident, and fought to keep himself focused and his hands steady, but his performance deteriorated. At one point, he was practically nodding off on his feet, and only a warning hissed in his ear from another slave waiting on the table alerted him to the fact that all the wine glasses were bone dry. Perhaps it would have been alright overall, except that at the very end, as he was pouring more into Carver's goblet, the strength in his hands went out, and the jar dipped. As he belatedly tried to steady the jar, his clumsy reaction resulted in knocking the goblet completely over. Carver was no mage; he couldn't do anything but swear and push back hurriedly from the table as his trousers and shirt were soaked in wine.

Now, Fenris was waiting in Master Hawke's room, face still numb from the backhanded blow the younger Hawke brother had delivered. The cool marble felt good against his skin, still hot from the day spent under the sun in the yard. The only good thing about dinner service was that it had driven sleep completely from his mind. Oh, he was exhausted, and his eyes burned and head swam in the way that said he was far beyond his usual limits. But he was not tempted to fall asleep kneeling; the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was about to get the worst beating to date, and the more agitated he grew, so that mental worry trumped physical weariness.

Truthfully, he had expected to get lashed right there in the dining room. Carver had looked murderous and struck him, sending Fenris reeling. Kolya had swooped in, snatching away the jar before more wine spilled and gripping Fenris by the elbow to keep him from hitting the floor. A serving girl moved forward with Kolya, going to Carver and beginning to fuss over him, and before Carver could refocus his fury, Kolya was propelling Fenris from the room, dragging him as Fenris stumbled to keep up. Fenris glanced over his shoulder only once. While Bethany helped to clean her brother up, Hawke remained in his seat, his back to Fenris; he couldn't see the mage's face, but Fenris had a feeling that it was not contorted into a mask of pride for his elven slave.

Hawke entered his rooms then, bringing Fenris out of his stupor. Instead of immediate fireworks, however, the mage nearly walked passed him and into the other room. In fact, Fenris was left kneeling for quite some time, until soft cursing was followed by, "Come here, elf." Stiff from remaining in one spot for so long, he still stumbled forward with weary acceptance, and found his master sitting half-dressed, looking vexed and holding a needle in one hand and a small mirror in the other. Fenris's mind immediately jumped to horrified speculation of what possible punishment could be administered with those two devices, and he was bitterly regretting his decision not to take his chances with running away.

"Don't just stand there, come hold this."

Fenris started and scrambled forward at the sharpness in his voice before realizing what the mage was asking of him. He saw Hawke holding the mirror out, and finally registered the long gash across Hawke's ribs. Although puzzled at the origin, he obediently took the mirror and held it near the wound, angled so that Hawke could see it in the mirror in front of him. The mage went to work stitching himself up, something he was clearly very good at; it took the work of minutes, and then he waved Fenris away to a corner.

Fenris watched the man warily, but Hawke appeared to have forgotten him, and went in and out of the room without so much as a glance in his direction. After the mage had settled down again, Fenris was unable to bear the waiting. He asked hesitantly, "May I ask a question?" There was a slight beat before he rushed to add, "Master Hawke." He was going to have to work on that.

Hawke sighed. "If it is a quick one. I have readings that need to be completed." 

Fenris hesitated before bursting out, "Am I not in trouble? For the wine?"

Hawke look surprised, and then amused, chuckling as he reached for his books. "Carver will never believe that I didn't somehow put you up to it. And he'll find a way to lash out at you himself - a very unpleasant way, I have no doubt. If it becomes a habit, of course, I will be angrier, but as it is, I feel no need to punish you for an accident."

He hadn't considered the danger from the younger brother. And he wasn't particularly scared of Carver, so he shrugged it off. He was a touch incredulous that after dumping wine all over one of his masters he was going to be more seriously punished. But he saw that Hawke was done answering, and so said nothing. The mage glanced at him after awhile, and said, "That will be all, Fenris. Report to the yards at dawn."

Fenris thanked the mage and complied, dragging himself into bed. He had gotten lucky with the dinner service, but he knew his luck wouldn't hold out. Right now, in the dark of the night, with no one carting him along or keeping an eye on him...this would be a perfect time to run. He thought about it, and the very idea of running through the streets made him numb and sick. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, he'd work to conserve his strength, and be ready to flee. Just...tomorrow.

Tomorrow came, and Fenris did not fare much better. He was sore, more sore than he had ever been in his life, and Cyrus pushed him just as long and just as hard despite the soreness. Afterwards, instead of inviting another 'disaster,' Kolya had Fenris practicing dinner service; setting the table, pouring the wine, managing all the ins and outs with a fussy exactness that made Fenris want to strangle the man, if only he could lift his arms high enough to accomplish that. The day passed again, and he once more went to sleep with the promise of tomorrow bringing freedom.

That particular tomorrow, he learned that Carver did indeed have an unpleasant notion of revenge. He came to the yards to practice, and Fenris was able to recognize that Carver was, in fact, an exceptional warrior. As Fenris was coming to the end of his workout, and Carver was coming to the end of his warm up, the warrior said, "Cyrus, I want to spar him." The guard captain seemed surprised, but was in no position to refuse his master, and Fenris, tired, sore, and already beaten around a little, realized that this was likely the 'lashing out' of which Master Hawke had warned him. Master Hawke's prediction proved all too true; Carver spent the next hour beating on Fenris over and over, easily smashing through his guard and delivering blows that made Fenris's vision turn grey. He cut him, too, long, shallow cuts that stung and bled, but never too much, all just enough to keep Fenris in the ring to take more punishment.

Master Hawke was gone again, and would not appear for the next several tomorrows, in which Fenris continually met Master Carver in the yards and had more injuries added on top of the old ones. He was still expected to be learning the rest of his duties, of course, but even Kolya appeared to be going easier on him in light of Carver's torments. Whenever Fenris seemed just about to have a moment to breathe and rest and maybe go see about getting some of his wounds stitched up, Carver would suddenly appear and send him on some petty errand, just something that kept him on his feet long enough for that window to disappear. Fenris came to appreciate the difference between the brothers, and knew that Hawke was the one to fear, but Carver was the one to hate. Or perhaps, more fairly, Carver was the powerless one who gained more out of tormenting the likewise powerless, while Hawke had no need for such displays except when they suited him.

The day Master Hawke returned, Fenris was immediately put to waiting on him after dinner. Kolya despaired of ever teaching Fenris how to be a good slave, but sent him on regardless. He was preparing the towels - heated, of course, so that the mage didn't even have the slight discomfort coming out of his bath - when Hawke suddenly said sharply, "Fenris, come here."

He jumped and came, confused - he hadn't done anything. Of course, maybe by not doing something, he had, in fact, done something wrong or...gods, he was just tired. The room spun, and he was not even remotely embarrassed to find Hawke naked, the mage having come out of his bath in search of the towels, presumably prompted by Fenris's slow pace. Stupidly, Fenris held out the towels to stave off whatever reproach was coming his way. While Master Hawke did take it, wrapping it around his waist, the sharp look in his eye did not fade, and Fenris's shoulders slumped a little. At this rate, he'd never be able to run again, nonetheless run away. He wondered what form the punishment would take - not that he was indifferent to the beating, but at this point he just honestly couldn't remember what was expected of him.

Hawke studied him, and then said quietly, "Take off your clothes." Oh excellent. Humiliation and violation. This was a new tact. A bit of pride stirred in Fenris and then went quiet with a weary sense of resignation, and he pulled off his shirt and kicked aside his breeches. Hawke continued to study him, and then said, "Lie down on the bed." Fenris didn't even blush; he walked back into the bedroom and lay down. "On your stomach, Fenris." He complied, flipping over and grunting as his ribs protested the movement. The sheets were cool against his skin, which was, as usual, running hot. He had lost count of the cuts that needed healing, and some might even be infected; he had been running a fever for the past couple days. He heard Hawke ring the bell to summon Kolya, who, of course, appeared in record time. Fenris kept his head turned away from the door so that he couldn't see the man; perhaps a bit of his pride still existed. He blocked out whatever Master Hawke was saying, and then stiffened slightly when he felt the weight on the mattress shift as Hawke sat down at his head. "Fenris, you are not to move." Okay. He could do that. 

Something scraped against one of the cuts on his back, and he stifled a cry, shying away. Hawke's hand was on his shoulder, holding him down, but surprisingly gentle. "Stay still." More prepared this time, Fenris managed to lie immobile. He felt warm water running down his sides, and realized that the mage was cleaning the cuts that Fenris had been unable to reach himself.

Kolya had returned, this time with one of the female slaves in tow. She was young and beautiful and quite the eyeful, and looked uncertain about the scene before her. Fenris, despite himself, turned his head to watch as Hawke stood up and glanced her over, a slight frown on his brow. "Such a waste," he heard the mage mutter under his breath, and then Hawke had turned back to him. "Fenris, your hand. Just a small cut." He had the little knife out, and Fenris sighed, and held out the hand that already bore the scar on its palm from where their blood had mingled. True to his word, Master Hawke made only a cut small enough to draw a small stream of blood, and dipped his fingertips in it, beginning to draw symbols in the air. They glowed red and hung suspended as if traced on real paper, and Fenris was fascinated by the sight of them, the complexity as they hovered in the air.

Hawke seemed to hesitate, and then asked, "Kolya, you are certain she is the one?"

Kolya nodded gravely. "Yes, Master Hawke. Master Carver favors her over the others."

Hawke shook his head, looking aggrieved. "I want a replacement." He added a few last touches to the floating symbols, gave Fenris a glance, and then with a twist of his hand, sent the symbols spinning. They ran together and then disappeared with a pop that made Fenris's teeth ache. At the same moment, a deep cold ran through all his injuries, even the bruises, biting and burning in its intensity so that he let out a startled cry before managing to silence himself. Just as abruptly, the pain vanished, and the girl screamed.

Fenris stared, horrified and fascinated, as the injuries that had been on him appeared on the girl as if happening all at once; she flinched at blows and her clothes were torn by invisible blades that left bloody cuts behind. Tentatively, Fenris sat up and looked down on himself, and realized that not a single wound remained. He was ashamed to admit, but it certainly lessened his repulsion at the idea that the girl was being injured by proxy. He did not want a single one of those wounds back. "You can deliver her to Carver now," Hawke said, and Kolya gave a tight-lipped nod, dragging the girl away as she sobbed and asked for mercy and wanted to know what it was she had done wrong.

The door shut behind them, and Fenris didn't really know what to do with himself. He was healed. In fact, the pain seemed a distant memory. Even some of his weariness was gone. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Hawke moved the basin of water back to where it belonged. 

"Your manners certainly haven't improved."

Fenris unaccountably found himself blushing. "I am grateful, Master Hawke. Thank you." The mage merely grunted in response, clearly not believing him. Fenris sat in silence, watching the mage closely, and then ventured, "Why heal me?"

Hawke shook his head. "I didn't. I wounded her. You were not the intended recipient; Carver was."

"But why heal me?" Fenris pressed. The mage could have just hurt the girl and let Fenris remain as he was. He didn't see how hurting her was sending a message to Carver, either, but that particular mystery wasn't of interest to him.

Hawke shuffled his papers and looked up with Fenris, his expression equal parts annoyed and amused. "I have no intention of explaining myself to you." Under the direct gaze of his golden eyes, Fenris was forced to look away, hating his cowardice but seeking a reprieve from the confusion the man's gaze set in him. Hawke chuckled and said, "What you really want to know is what I intend to do with you. You think I'm turning you into some mindless beast. Breaking your will. Have you grovel and squeal like a spineless peon." He came closer, stood right in front of him, grabbed his chin, and forced Fenris to look up at him. Fenris was struck by the gleam in Hawke's eye. Not a predator, certainly not passive...it was an unfeeling, detached sort of amusement and sense of purpose that frightened Fenris more than any sadism. The smile on Hawke's face was worse than Kolya's; Fenris knew what was behind Kolya's smile. Hawke's...there was no way to know what motivated the man's mirth. "Every man likes a spirited stallion in the stables, Fenris. But if such an animal can't learn to take bridle and saddle...well, better to break its will than lose valuable horseflesh."

Fenris felt a twinge in his neck from the awkward angle as he looked up, but it vanished in the flash of anger. "And I'm the spirited stallion?"

Hawke's answering chuckle made Fenris want to punch him then and there. "A stubborn mount at best, for now. An animal made stupid by its own pride. After all, you still think that you're here because I'm forcing you to be, because you have no choice."

"And I'm not?"

"No, little wolf. You can pretend its magic or training or weariness or pragmatism, but you're only here because you want to be. Because you belong here. Because you know, deep down, that you are a slave, and nothing more, and that no amount of running will change that."

Fenris's face contorted into a snarl, but Hawke merely pushed him back against the bed and straddled him, knees pinning his arms when Fenris tried to take a swing at him. Fenris kicked out and tried to get leverage, but found the mage surprisingly solid for an academic, and Hawke manhandled him as if he he were no more than a child.

"Really, Fenris, that's quite enough," Hawke chided, sitting back and effectively smothering the elf's movements. "I am just trying to help you. The sooner you accept it, the happier you will be, and the less I will have to hurt you."

The idea of submitting in such a manner made Fenris struggle harder. The patronizing look that Hawke was giving him was a good indication that his struggles were for naught. Furious at his own helplessness, Fenris spat out, "I will fucking ki - !" Whatever rash threat was going to come after that was cut off as Hawke's lips pressed against his. Fenris froze, surprised and confused. Slowly at first, and then with increasing warmth, Hawke kissed him, lips working to tease and massage. Hawke's hand cupped his cheeks at first, but then the rough callouses from handling his staff eased down Fenris's body. Fenris did not know when he began kissing back, but his lyrium markings were stuttering and flickering with light as he lost control. Hawke's mouth moved to his neck, to his shoulder, to his ear, and then he was kissing a spot just below his lobe that made Fenris's toes curl, breath stolen at the shock of heat that rushed through his body. 

He realized his hands were free, but he couldn't bring himself to hit Hawke, to drive the man away. He thought about it; thought about striking with everything he had, hitting the mage along his ribs where that wound had been stitched up the other day, using the distraction to kill the man and thus end the pull of the blood magic and be able to run away without getting snared and brought back. The thought lasted no longer than it took for Hawke's hips to rock against his. Fenris's arms went around him, pulling him closer, fingers running appreciatively down the hard ridgeline of the man's back, threading his fingers through Hawke's thick hair, reveling in physical perfections that he had only been able to imagine as he jerked himself off alone at night. The reality surpassed any fantasy, and he gave up fighting it, eagerly leaping on the chance to dive headfirst into his obsession. He arched his back to get closer, hard cock rubbing against Hawke's abs, the heat and friction making him moan hungrily as Hawke's tongue plundered his mouth, his hands exploring liberally.

Hawke bit his lip ever so gently and then lifted his head up slowly. His hands were on Fenris's arms, holding him down as he pulled away. Fenris let out a mortifying whine, panting as the man pulled back, still holding him down firmly and denying Fenris the contact that his whole body was straining for. Hawke raised a brow, lips swollen from kisses but face unmarked by the flush that trumpeted Fenris's own desire. "You _want_ to stay, little wolf. But you haven't earned the right to do so." Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to control his ragged breathing, and then jerked when Hawke reached down and cupped his balls. "I take it you are finished with your questions?" 

Just for the chance to finish, Fenris could become compliant. He nodded and said, "No more questions, Master Hawke. Thank you, Ma - " Being released was just as surprising as being touched; the absence was enough to make Fenris freeze in confusion.

Hawke got up, rolling out his shoulders. "Until you start showing some dedication to your work, little wolf, I don't think you deserve to come. Not by your own hand; certainly not by mine. Can't feed a dog treats when it's still chewing up the furniture." Fenris let the command sink in, grinding his teeth in frustration. It would usually only be a question of slipping away to take care of the problem, but with Hawke in his head all the time.... He watched as Hawke dunked his head into a basin of water and shook it out, the soft candlelight playing with the fine curves and edges of his physique. Fenris felt that maddening hunger grow and groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut and sitting up, trying to convert desire into movement.

"Tonight," Hawke said, splashing water on his face and finger combing his hair into the semblance of order (Fenris remembered running his fingers through that hair and having to sit on his hands to avoid betraying his reaction), "you will sleep here." He gave a careless wave that seemed to indicate at the foot of the bed. Fenris doubted the mage was saying that he could actually sleep _on_ the bed. No, it'd be the floor for him. Healed up, that wasn't too onerous an idea; he stood up and waited uncertainly, still trying to ascertain the man's intentions. "If you wish, you may return to the slave's dormitory, and I will let you serve the rest of your time as a mere academic curiosity who also happens to scrub the floors from time to time. If, however, I awake and find you still here...well. Tomorrow, we will start anew, and you will learn all the benefits of giving yourself in service." Hawke dried his hands, and then smiled at Fenris. "You may slit my throat in my sleep, too, and run for the hills. The choice is yours, Fenris, but I will hold you to whatever choice you make - no changing your mind down the road."

Hawke got into bed, putting out the candles with a simple wave of his hand. Fenris tried to get settled on the hard floor at the foot of the bed, but his head was still fuzzy and his cock hard; every movement made his breath get heavier as he fought to control himself. At last he was still, conscious that his breathing was the loudest thing in the room. He tried to quiet himself, mulling over the 'choices' that the mage had put before him, and heard the mage's final 'good night,' spoken as a promise that sent a shiver down Fenris's spine.

"Tomorrow."


End file.
